


the lonely man & the emrys king

by Fictionista654



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:50:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: It's been five years since Merlin died at the hands of Morgana. Five years since Arthur killed his own sister in order to protect Camelot. He has given up all hope of being happy. Then a strange woman interrupts the feast of the Pentecost with a strange request: go and meet with the Emrys king. Canon divergent end of season three.





	the lonely man & the emrys king

In the fifth year of the reign of King Arthur Pendragon, he called a great feat of the Pentecost. There had been no celebration of this caliber since his father had ruled, and news quickly spread throughout the land. Knights halted their questing and galloped back to the capital; farmers loaded their families into wagons in the hopes of catching a scrap from the king’s table. Camelot’s maidens dressed in silks and tucked flowers in their hair in preparation for the three days of festivities, filled with jousts and pantomimes, and culminating in the final feast.

There were many strange and wonderful guests: Jesters who could blow fire from their noses, singers who could draw tears from stone, knights bearing fantastic stories from far-away lands—they all sat at the king’s tables and broke bread as companions. It was agreed that the queen was glowing with health, her dark eyes bright and her warm brown skin golden in the candlelight. The king, however, was the picture of exhaustion, his still-youthful face worn and his blue eyes bloodshot. He had been this way since he assumed the throne.

The tenth course had just been called when the damosel entered the hall. She had brown hair and brown eyes and wore a white gown that shimmered like the inside of a cloud. Immediately, all noise ceased as instruments and conversations were cast away in favor of staring at the stranger. For there was something odd about her, something powerful that drew the attention like a magnet.

“Arthur Pendragon,” she said, and her voice was like waves lapping against a shore. “I am come to offer you a quest.”

“A quest,” said the king, his voice flat. “What kind, my lady?”

“There is a Druid camp outside your gates,” she said, and a murmur rustled through the throne room. Although the Druids had not been persecuted since the days of King Uther, of blessed memory, it was rare to find them any closer than the Forest Sauvage. “Seek them out, and ask to speak with with the Emrys king.”

“The Emrys king?” said the queen, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “There is no king in Camelot but Arthur.”

The damosel bowed her head. “No king _of Camelot_ but Arthur,” she corrected, “but the Druids and all creatures of magic answer to a different crown.”

“And what is the purpose of this quest?” said the brave Sir Lancelot, who sat, as always, to the queen’s left side. “The king has a duty to his throne; surely one of his knights could embark on this quest in his stead.”

“This quest is for the king, and the king alone. Do you accept, Arthur Pendragon?”

He rode out at dawn.

***

Midmorning, it began to rain. Arthur stopped for shelter beneath a thick oak tree; it would take three Percivals to encircle it with their arms. He leaned against the ragged bark and tried to organize his thoughts. He wasn’t a fool; he knew that this summons—for that’s what it was—was about magic. About allowing it back into Camelot. Arthur had no wish to be his father. Morgana’s betrayal had taught him that hatred fosters only more hatred. He believed that if Uther had known about and accepted Morgana’s magic, she would still be where she belonged, alive and in Camelot.

But magic was a wild and dangerous thing. It chilled Arthur to think about the trust ordinary citizens would have to put in the powerful men and women of magic. If allowed to grow to full strength, there were sorcerers who would be able to set the world aflame with a single thought.

“Your Majesty.”

Arthur startled. The child, barefoot and bareheaded, wearing a cloak the color of the earth, had come from nowhere. She extended one small hand upward, and after a moment’s consideration, Arthur took it, holding onto his horse’s rein with his other hand.

“My lady,” he said solemnly. If she were the Druids’ envoy, he would treat her with the respect due to any ambassador. She didn’t smile, but nodded to show she’d heard him. As they walked deeper into the forest, Arthur realized why he hadn’t noticed her approach. She moved soundlessly through the world, like a piece of cotton tumbling across the floor.

The farther they went, the more signs there were of the nearby camp. Rabbit snares, footprints, twigs snapped from trees. At last, they crested a small hill that looked over the camp. It was strangely silent, the Druids moving slowly and quietly, as though a great weight were upon them. Perhaps, Arthur realized, there was. After all, he was here to decide their fate.

When the child led him into the camp, the Druids stiffened, clustering into groups. Arthur noticed that none of them bowed, but no one booed, either. They watched him with tense eyes. Like the girl, they wore earth tones and no shoes. Their feet were probably callused enough to walk on coals. A woman took the reins from Arthur. “I will bring her to rest with our own horses.” Arthur nodded. A man a bit taller than him stepped forward.

“We must ask that you remove all vessels of war.”

Arthur looked from the man to his sword. It could do nothing against magic, but he knew that he would feel naked without its weight at his side. With a heavy heart, he removed Excalibur from her belt and passed her to the man.

“This sword means much to you.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, not surprised at the Druid knowing more than he should. “An old friend gave it to me.”

“It is a very special sword indeed.” The voice came from behind Arthur, and he turned to see its owner. There, flanked by two other Druids, stood a cloaked and hooded figure leaning on a staff. His entire face was nothing but shadows. “Your Majesty,” the figure added, almost as an afterthought.

“You must be the Emrys king,” Arthur said quietly. To Arthur’s surprise, the figure laughed.

“Is that what she called me?” he said, amusement heavy in his voice. “Just Emrys will do.”

“Emrys, then,” said Arthur. “Are these your guard?”

“I am Elaine,” said the Druid to Emrys’s right. The one to Emrys’s left introduced himself as Mordred, and Arthur’s mouth fell open.

“I know you!” he said. “You’re the Druid boy!”

Mordred smiled wryly. “I am no longer a boy,” he said, with a weariness that made the statement less ridiculous than it should have been, considering how young he still was. Arthur shook his head in wonderment, taking the chance to look about the camp again. The Druids were all standing respectfully in the presence of their king, but there had been no bowing or curtsying. So like the Druids: equality in everything.

“You are tired,” said Emrys, and Arthur found that it was true. He had not slept well the night before, consumed by dreams of—his thoughts stopped there, like something teetering on the edge of a cliff. He’d trained himself not to follow thoughts like that to their conclusions. It was too painful.

“Yes,” said Arthur. “I am.” It was discomfiting not to be able to see Emrys’s face. No matter how hard Arthur’s eyes strained, all he could see was darkness. It wasn’t just the hood; it had to be magic. He wondered if Emrys were disfigured, or if this were some sort of metaphor for Emrys being a vessel of his people, or some Druidic thing like that.

“Gareth will show you to your tent,” Emrys said. “You will refresh yourself and rest before you join me for dinner.”

“You would order about the king of Camelot?” Arthur said with an eyebrow raised.

“I apologize,” Emrys said lightly. “I am sorry to have presumed that you would like some comforts after your ride.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened. Emrys was teasing him, and he was’t sure he liked it. It reminded him of someone else, the person he refused to name. He’d allowed the teasing then because they had been friends. Emrys was an unknown, literally faceless.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Arthur said finally. At a nod from Emrys, a teenage boy with fiery red hair stepped from the ranks of Druids. He led Arthur to a nearby tent, where Arthur was surprised to see a flower-strewn bath. He’d assumed that Druids did all their bathing in the river. There was a screen for Arthur to undress behind, and he gratefully removed his rain-soaked clothes. He realized that it had stopped raining, but he couldn’t remember when exactly that had happened.

When he stepped out from behind the screen, the Druid boy was knelt by the side of the water, one hand outstretched. A horrible sound came from his mouth, a slithering sibilant language, and Arthur almost lunged for the boy, but then steam rose off the top of the water. A heating spell, nothing more. If the Druids wanted to kill him, they could do it any way they pleased. Sabotaging his bath didn’t seem to be their style.

Still. The boy, Gareth, had just done magic in front of the _king of Camelot_. Did he fear nothing? Gareth noticed Arthur staring, and he stepped aside a bit sheepishly. “We discussed it before you arrived,” he said. “Whether or not to hide our magic. But this will work only if both sides are honest.”

And how did a mere servant become so knowledgable? Perhaps he was more than a servant, after all. Or perhaps all Druids walked around with a deep vein of wisdom embedded in their cores.

“I am not upset with you,” said Arthur, surprised to find that it was true. And if he had been upset before, it would have disappeared when he stepped into the bath. The water rolled luxuriously over his skin, sending shivers of pleasure up his back. He leaned back with his head on the rim and looked up at the tent’s peaked ceiling. The flowers’ scents rose with the steam, to a relaxing effect. Arthur felt as good as a cat in a patch of sunlight.

“Do you require me to wash you, my lord?” said Gareth. Arthur eyed him idly.

“I get the impression that Druids don’t do that sort of thing,” he said dryly. Gareth flushed pink.

“We do help the elderly and infirm bathe,” said Gareth. “But no, we mostly wash ourselves. Even Emrys.”

“Then I will wash myself,” said Arthur. “Leave me.” Gareth nodded and retreated, stopping only to point out the clean clothes laid out on the cot in the corner. They were Druid clothes, rough-spun and plain.

This bath was a dream. A true dream. Arthur hadn’t had a bath like this in ages, not since—and there it was again. The edge of tragedy. He had to hold himself together. Hearing his father’s name, Morgana’s—those hurt, yes. But if he were honest with himself, he did not yearn for them in quite the same way as he did for—

Arthur closed his eyes and let his head slip beneath the water. He floated in watery silence, feeling his thoughts disperse in the heat. This bath made it alarmingly easy to forget his cares. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep and drown himself, so Arthur hurriedly bathed himself and threw himself into the cot. For once, sleep came painlessly.

***

 _A sword, drifting through the air on a breeze. Arthur reached and reached, his fingers just grazing the hilt. He couldn’t remember why, but he_ needed _that sword. Without it, Camelot would be lost. But the more Arthur reached, the farther away it got. He dropped, panting, to the forest floor. The name he refused to think in waking hours roared through him now, a psychic scream of pain. This was all he had left, all he had left of Merlin._

Arthur woke with a gasp. How long had he been out? From the lack of light coming through the tent walls, at least six hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept so long. His head felt foggy and his mouth tasted terrible. The entrance to the tent rustled, and Gareth popped his head in. Arthur didn’t ask how Gareth had known he was awake.

“Emrys is ready to meet with you, my lord.”

“Fetch me something with to clean my teeth,” Arthur said, his voice rusty with sleep. Gareth nodded and left, giving Arthur a brief moment to stretch and reaccustom himself to being awake. His sleep might have been good, but he’d still had the dream, in the end. The meaning was embarrassingly obvious. Merl—he was the sword. The thing Arthur couldn’t reach. And the Excalibur _was_ the last thing he had given him.

Excalibur. Arthur wondered where she was being held. The Druids had better be taking good care of her. Gareth reappeared then with a jug of water, a flask of wine to wash for Arthur to wash out his mouth, and a square of cloth for scrubbing his teeth. Arthur set to the task with relief. When he felt suitably clean, he allowed Gareth to lead him from the tent.

Despite the dark, the camp still bustled with activity. Groups of Druids gathered around campfires to eat, but they weren’t closed units. Everybody was talking with everybody else, children running from fire to fire with their hands outstretched, men and women calling to their friends a few fires over. The entire camp was a family, Arthur realized. And what a different family from the one he’d grown up with. He’d been happy with Uther and Morgana, but that had been the barest family unit. This place overflowed with love.

Emrys, along with Elaine and Mordred, was seated at the central campfire. The three of them were deep in conversation, but when Emrys saw Arthur he broke off. “Your Majesty,” he said graciously. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Arthur admitted. “The flowers in the bath were wonderful. Thank you.” Emrys was sitting with his legs crossed, and Arthur followed his lead, feeling only a little foolish. Gareth spooned Arthur a ladleful of the stew cooking over the fire, and Arthur took it gratefully. He hadn’t had anything to eat since before the sun rose that morning. It was delicious, rich and hearty and cleverly spiced. “This is delicious.”

“Fit for a king, you might say?” Arthur could hear the smile in Emrys’s voice. He wished he could see the face that went along with it. And the voice itself—it confused Arthur. It wasn’t an ordinary voice. It was tinged with an unearthly nature, something that, quite frankly, spooked him. But he didn’t want to risk offending the man by asking him to remove his magical trappings. Maybe Emrys wore magic where Arthur wore a crown.

“I am glad to see you well,” Arthur told Mordred. “I worried about you.”

Mordred smiled, the first true one Arthur had seen from any of the Druids. “I have you and the Lady Morgana to thank for my life.” His smile passed as quickly as it had come. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you.”

“No, it’s all right,” Arthur said, his throat suddenly tight. “She was a good woman before Morgause corrupted her.”

“Corrupted her?” Elaine demanded fiercely. “Was she supposed to yield to your genocidal father? _Bow_ to him? I was ten during the Great Purge. _I remember it._ You couldn’t step foot in Camelot without breathing in the flesh of burned mages. Your father rounded up children and drowned them before their parents’ eyes.” Her voice broke, and she angrily wiped at a runaway tear. “He hunted us through our own homes as though we were animals. Do you have any idea the despair we felt? There was no escape from his campaign of hatred.”

Arthur had known, of course, what his father had done. But he had never heard a survivor of the Purge speak so openly. He remembered the pain of Morgana’s death and multiplied it by thousands. Entire families killed in days. He swallowed hard, his throat burning. “I am truly sorry for my father’s actions,” he said as steadily as he could. “I know there is nothing I can do to change what happened. All I have to offer is that assurance I am not my father.” He paused. “As for Morgana, it was not her magic that set us at odds. She, like my father, murdered innocents. And I miss her terribly, every day.”

Mordred poked at the fire with a stick. “They say you’re the one who killed her.”

“Yes,” Arthur said heavily. “She was destroying the citadel, murdering so many. I had to stop her.”

“A sorcerer of such power is hard to kill,” Emrys said, startling Arthur. “I wonder how you managed it.”

Arthur’s eyes drifted across the camp. He picked out Gareth, seated with his family at his own fire. “My sword is unusual,” said Arthur. He met Emrys’s gaze—or would have, if he could see Emrys’s eyes. “The man who gave it to me told me it was forged in a dragon’s breath and could kill even immortals.”

“The man who gave it to you?” Emrys echoed.

Arthur wrapped his hands tightly around his bowl. “My manservant. He was killed in the battle.” At the inquisitive silence, he added, “We were going up against an invincible army of immortals. All was lost. But when we came to the citadel, he presented me with the most beautiful sword I’ve ever seen. Excalibur.”

“Meaning Harsh Blow,” said Elaine.

“Or Cut Steel,” Mordred added. “Did it work?”

Arthur shivered, remembering the way Morgause’s army had burst into the scraps of light and flesh. “Yes,” he said. “It did.” The flames jumped higher under a sudden breeze.

“I wonder where he came by such a weapon,” Emrys mused. “Forged in a dragon’s breath, you say?”

“I’ve turned it over and over in my head,” said Arthur, looking into the flames. “He wouldn’t tell me where he got it. I suspect he went to a sorcerer behind my back. He…he was a very brave man.”

“He was,” Mordred agreed, exchanging a glance with Elaine. It suddenly occurred to Arthur that Mordred, despite his age at the time of Morgana’s coup, would have been one of the only sorcerers Merlin knew. Perhaps Merlin had gone to Mordred’s tribe for help. Arthur saved this thought for later.

“Come,” Emrys said suddenly. “I wish to talk with you alone. Mordred, Elaine, get some sleep.”

“Are you sure?” said Elaine, cutting Arthur a look.

“Yes,” Emrys said firmly. Arthur and Emrys walked slowly, the latter leaning heavily on his staff. At last, they came to a small, unadorned tent. From all he’d seen so far today, Arthur was unsurprised at the Emrys king’s humble lodgings. Inside, Emrys snapped his fingers, and several blue-white lights rose to the ceiling, casting a small cot and a low table in their gentle glow. This was barely done when he sank onto his cot with a low groan.

“That injury,” said Arthur, sitting on floor by the table, which was so low to the ground that it eliminated the need for chairs. “You can’t heal it with magic?”

Emrys laughed. “If everything could be fixed with magic, the world would be a much better place.” He sobered, saying, “And anything powerful enough to fix everything would throw off the balance of the universe.”

“Balance,” said Arthur. “You Druids are all about that, aren’t you?”

“Good versus evil. Dawn versus dusk. Yes,” said Emrys. “We understand the importance of equilibrium. It is our solemn duty to resist against against evil’s great weight.”

“I suppose I am trying to restore balance as well,” Arthur said. “Trying to make up for my father’s mistakes.”

Emrys humphed. “Mistakes is a very light word indeed.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I hop to do my best to make up for his sins.”

“And yet the ban on magic is still in place.”

Arthur at the spot between his eyes, willing his headache to whence it came. “Seven-and-twenty years of legislation cannot be so easily undone.”

“No?” said Emrys. For the first time, there was a dangerous edge to his voice. “And why is that?”

“If everyone were allowed to practice magic—”

“You think the ban stopped people from practicing?” said Emrys, his scorn evident. “Anyone the ban stopped from practicing magic would not have had enough natural talent to cause the fear you imagine. And the strong sorcerers have no choice but to follow magic. It calls to us, not the other way around. The ban is like damming up the ocean or turning back the earth. Impossible, and causing more problems than solutions.”

“You took my sword when I came in,” Arthur said. “This is a peaceful place, and I had no wish to infringe on that, so I gave up Excalibur willingly. But a sorcerer is always armed. How is that fair?”

“Swords are made for killing,” Emrys said harshly. “Magic is not. Physicians know how to harm as well as how to heal. Would you ban them as well? And beyond that, if Excalibur were welded to your very flesh, we would not force you to part with her, the same way I would not bind your hands behind your back. But Excalibur is removable. You can put her into your belt and take her out when you see fit. I was born with this magic. It called to me in the cradle. The only way for you to rid me of it is to kill me. So I ask you, why is the ban still in place?”

“I can’t repeal it at once,” snapped Arthur. “I have to do this delicately. Lay down rules and regulations. There needs to be a code, like the knights’ code.”

“And you’re the man to write the code?” said Emrys. “Not sorcerers themselves?”

Arthur rubbed his fingertips along the table. What Emrys said had truth to it. He wouldn’t have a civilian write the knight’s code, so why did he think he could come up with the sorcerers’? “I am not averse to help, if you would give it.”

“Release the ban, and I will gladly help you.”

“And if I don’t?”

Emrys bowed his head. “Then it will be a sad day indeed, Arthur Pendragon.”

***

Merlin sat alone for a long time after Arthur left for his own bed. His heart was racing, his palms sweating. He’d had five years to grow used to being the Druids’ leader, five years to understand the true responsibility of his position. And now one day with Arthur had him feeling like the boy he’d been five years ago. A boy foolishly in love with a man who would never love him back. A boy who thought he knew what destiny was.

“Emrys?”

Merlin looked up. “Mordred,” he said softly, pulling back the cloak that disguised his face and letting the magic out of his voice. “Come in.” Mordred entered a little nervously, carefully closing the tent flaps behind him. He didn’t sit, but stood against the canvas wall.

“Did you talk to him about it?” Mordred said, his voice betraying his anxiety. “Repealing the ban?”

“It’s too soon to tell for certain what he will choose,” said Merlin, unable to keep his disappointment from being evident. “But I knew him, once. He speaks the truth when he says he is not his father.”

Mordred tilted his had. “Is he much changed?”

“Yes. No.” Merlin rubbed at his bad leg as he thought. “He is more reserved than he used to be. Sadder.”

“He’s lost much,” said Mordred. “His father, his sister. You.”

“Me?” said Merlin. “I’m afraid I’m not as important to him as the king or the lady Morgana.”

Mordred shook his head. “You’re wrong! You heard the way he talked about his lost manservant.” Hope, that irascible beast, flickered in Merlin’s chest. He had the terrible feeling that Mordred could see every gem of want within Merlin, all those precious bits he’d hidden for so long. “I’ve seen you with him, as a child and then now. I know how you feel towards him. You don’t know if it’s too late—”

“He’s married,” Merlin said. “To the most kind and good woman I’ve known. No. If I had a chance, it is long gone. And the mission is more important. We will bring magic back to Camelot. I swear it.”

“They say the queen loves another—”

“Mordred.”

“You will not even show him your identity?” said Mordred. “Haven’t you hidden for long enough?”

“That’s enough.” Merlin spoke with finality. “I will see you in the morning.” Mordred hesitated, but eventually dipped his head and left the tent. Merlin undressed unsteadily. He was still young, but his wounds hurt him more with every passing year. Soon, he would need someone to help him dress and undress. Naked, he inspected his damaged leg. The scar tissue was so thick that he trouble bending his knee; the keloids were impervious to both magic and knife. The pain would also be with him forever.

Yes, Morgana had been a powerful witch. Arthur had entered the room just as she cast her final curse. Merlin, frozen by Arthur’s presence, did nothing to stop the magic from ripping through his leg. He remembered the room going dark as Morgana dropped over sister’s prone body. He lost consciousness before seeing Arthur’s killing strike.

And then he’d died. They’d even burned his body. But the magic had other plans for Merlin; it pressed the ashes that had been him back together, gave him a heartbeat, and nudged him onto the path of a Druid enclave. They’d done their best to help him, but the spot where the curse had struck would never heal. Merlin had come to terms with that long ago. It was better than being dead.

Although times like now, he could think of worse things than eternal sleep.

***

In the dream, they’d been sitting by a campfire, warming their hands in its glow. Merlin was beautiful, so beautiful, his sharp cheekbones and full lips making Arthur’s heart ache. Merlin’s left leg was gone below the knee, the way it had been when Arthur yanked Excalibur from Morgana and turned to see how Merlin fared. But in the dream, his stump no longer gushed blood. A smooth of skin covered what was left of his knee. And Merlin was happy. Arthur woke with Merlin’s laughter ringing in his ears.

Arthur pressed his face into his pillow and willed himself back through the years. What he wouldn’t give for Merlin to crash into his chambers, bright with life and purpose. Any of those times, Arthur could have pulled Merlin into his bed. He’d had five years with Merlin, and he’d wasted each one. Yearning tugged at his stomach, and he closed his eyes in regret. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he pried himself up and dressed himself in the clothes folded at the foot of his cot.

When Arthur left his tent, he realized it wasn’t as late as he thought. The sun was still low in the sky, and the camp was just beginning to stir. He watched a child, no more than six or seven, lug a full bucket of water along the ground. His round face was red with exertion, and Arthur was about to step forward and help him when an older child, maybe twelve or so, held out her hand and muttered something beneath her breath. The bucket floated from the child’s grip and bobbed alongside him.

“I _had_ it, Len,” complained the boy, rubbing his nose with the back of her hand. Len rolled her eyes and tossed her long braid over her shoulder.

“Next time I won’t help you, then.” She lunged forward and tickled the child’s ribs. When he clapped his hands in laughter, literal sparks flew from them. Arthur stifled a gasp, and both children turn to stare at him. The bucket crashed to the ground, spilling water everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, masking his discomfort with a smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” So this was what casual magic was like. Even with what Emrys had said the night before, Arthur hadn’t realized how integral magic was to these people. If that boy had been in Uther’s Camelot and lost control of his magic, let his glee manifest itself like that, he would have been arrested on the spot, for something he likely couldn’t control.

“You’re the king,” the boy said. He didn’t sound afraid, only curious. He was probably too young to remember Uther’s reign, when even non-magical Druids had to fear for their lives. Arthur wondered what he had learned of the Pendragons, what he had heard about King Arthur of Camelot.

“I am,” Arthur said, kneeling to the boy’s height. “My name is Arthur. What’s yours?”

The boy looked over his shoulder at Len—his sister?—and she put a protective hand on his shoulder.

“His name’s Tim, Your Majesty.”

“Tim,” Arthur said. “What are your thoughts on magic?”

A cloud passed over Tim’s face. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled.

“Do you like magic?”

“You might as well ask him if he likes walking,” Len said derisively. “How is he supposed to answer you? It’s all he knows.” Her green eyes bored into Arthur. “You don’t know much about magic, do you.”

“You’re right,” said Arthur, meeting her gaze. “I don’t. But maybe you could teach me?”

***

“Emrys! Emrys, wake up. There’s something you must see.”

Merlin groaned and rolled over in his bed. Before his death, he’d been an impeccable early riser, but the wound leached him of strength. Or maybe the fact of dying itself changed a person. Whatever the reason, Merlin had definitely had more energy on the other side of immortality.

“What is it?” he murmured.

“I’m serious, Emrys, you’ll want to see this.” It was Elaine, of course. Who else would yank the Emrys king from his sleep like she did? And yes, the irony of having a servant pull him from bed did not escape him.

“What is it?” he repeated, sitting up and blinking owlishly. Elaine was dressed in trousers and a loose green tunic, which meant she’d been doing some early-morning hunting. Merlin still didn’t much like the activity, but at least the Druids didn’t do it for sport. They killed no more than what they needed to survive.

“Get dressed and come see,” Elaine said over her shoulder, already on her way out. Merlin sighed and slumped back on his elbows.

Elaine was waiting for him when he finally came out, lazily spinning a small rock in the air above her hand. She caught it when she saw Merlin and set off without a word. He followed her outside the camp, to a cluster of trees by the river. He made to set down the bank, but Elaine stopped him with one hand and pointed with the other. There were already people by the river’s edge, Merlin realized. Two children—Len and Tim, both of them accomplished magic users—and Arthur Pendragon himself. He was beautiful in the fresh morning light, his hair shining golden in the sun. And it was ridiculous, but Merlin had always loved how _precise_ Arthur’s face was. The chiseled nose, the strong chin and jaw, the firm set of his lips. His sharp, sharp teeth. He was showing these off now, his head thrown back in laughter and his Adam’s apple bobbing joyfully.

“You got me!” Arthur said to Len, his voice carrying up to Merlin and Elaine. Len grinned and bashfully smoothed back her braid.

“My turn,” yelled Tim. He and Arthur faced each other, both of their fists raised for a mock fight. Arthur faked a lung, and Tim burbled with laughter. Arthur went in again, and this time Tim stomped his foot against the bank. The ground beneath Arthur’s feet bucked, sending him flying. Arthur lay back, laughing helplessly.

“That was incredible,” he said when he regained his breath.

“Do you see what I mean?” said Len. “Magic is in everything. The air, the ground, the trees. Some of us are just more connected than others.” She was quoting her tutors, but that didn’t make her wrong. Merlin felt a swell of pride for his best student. He pulled his hood over his head and set off down the sloping bank. His injured leg made it awkward, and he was glad for the support of his cane.

“Lenore!” Merlin called out. “Timothy!” The children ran up to him, both talking excitedly.

“Did you see my thwack?” said Tim, holding his arms out wide. “I thwacked the ground!”

“And a very good thwack it was,” said Elaine. “Come, children. It is time for breakfast.” She took their hands and, with a last backwards glance at Merlin, led them off.

“Bye Arthur!” said Tim, leaning backwards.

“Until we meet again,” Arthur said solemnly. Merlin braced himself against a sudden stab of pain in his leg, biting his lip so he wouldn’t cry out. When he tried to adjust his stance, his leg crumpled, and he fell to the ground. Arthur was there in a moment, helping him sit in a comfortable position. “There really is nothing magic can do for you?”

“Pain is the price I pay for life,” Merlin panted. “And it hurts some days more than others.” He rested his head against the hill and breathed in the clean spring scent. “You’ve made friends for life, today.”

“You mean Len and Tim?” said Arthur.

“This is the beginning of a great alliance. If you are kind to magic, their children and their children’s children will be kind to Camelot.” 

Arthur’s fingers dug into the ground. “My father would have murdered the children I saw today.” He looked away. “I have been thinking it over. When I return to Camelot, I will repeat the ban, effective immediately.”

Merin hadn’t doubted Arthur, but the relief still made him weak. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “Thank you.”

“I will need a Druid to accompany me to Camelot and assist me if there is to be sorcerers’ code. I was hoping it would be you, if you accept.”

Of course. Of course Merlin would accept. He would follow Arthur anywhere, even though this Arthur was so different from the old one. Like Merlin, he’d lost so much innocence. Exhaustion was writ heavy on his face. His back stooped, as if bowing to a strong wind. “You are a lonely man,” said Merlin. Arthur didn’t look surprised.

“Yes. Very lonely.”

“Despite your wife the queen and the Knights of the Round Table?” Merlin found himself leaning forward, eager for Arthur’s answer. It took Arthur a while to find his voice, and when he did, he spoke slowly, haltingly.

“I mentioned my manservant before. I have never had such a good friend, before or since. He was foolish, so foolish. An idiot, really. I don’t know why I kept him around. Except I would have gone mad without him.” Arthur’s mouth hinted at a smile. “He was so happy, like a child. If it were a beautiful day out, he’d stretch into the sun. He was distracted easily. I can’t count the number of times he literally stopped to smell the roses in the middle of a hunt. But who could fault him for loving beauty? And sometimes he would say things…odd bits of wisdom. He knew me better than anyone.”

“I had a friend like that once,” Merlin said, almost to himself. “A fool, and brilliant at the same time. He was a noble and good man.”

“What happened to him?”

“It’s a long story,” Merlin said.

“We have time.”

Merlin licked his lips. “He didn’t know I had magic, and I was afraid that he would hate me if he knew. Every day I lied to him added a new weight to my soul. In the end, it seemed it would be better if he never found out. I wanted him to remember me fondly.”

“But you’re the Emrys king,” Arthur said, a wrinkle between his brows. “Surely everyone knew your power.”

“I did not always go by this name.” Merlin’s throat felt three sizes to large. His damaged leg trembled. “I used to live as a ordinary man, in Camelot.”

“In Camelot!” said Arthur. “But you risked death!”

“And I almost got it, too,” Merlin said, remembering the times he’d spent in the dungeons. “But it was never my fate to stay there. In the end, I had to leave.”

“You are lucky your friend is still alive,” Arthur said. “Mine is dead. I will never see him again in this life.” Merlin wanted nothing more than to sooth Arthur’s grief. His hand drifted up to his hood, his fingers curling around its edge. It would be so easy…

“EMRYS! EMRYS!” Enid stumbled down the bank, her dark brown hair streaming out behind her. “Emrys, it’s Bedivere!”

Panic shot through Merlin’s heart, and he forced himself to his feet, one hand gripping his staff. “What has he done this time?”

Enid helplessly shook her head. “Quickly, Emrys. Please.” Merlin set his jaw and began the painful journey back to the camp. His leg smarted with each step, and, not for the first time, he despaired the day Morgana had killed him.

When they got back to camp, the Druids stood aside in respect, giving Emrys a straight shot to Bedivere, who was being magically held down by Mordred. Elaine had her arms around Susan, Bedivere’s luckless wife. Her face was painted with bruises.

“He tried to murder her,” Elaine told Merlin quietly. “Came at her with fists swinging.” Bedivere had always had an explosive anger, but this was the first time he’d attacked his wife. At least, as far as Merlin knew. He felt sick.

“You have broken the first law of this camp,” Merlin said, turning to look at the pathetic man sprawled on the ground. “You have harmed another.”

“I’m sorry,” Bedivere wailed. “I wasn’t thinking, I’ll be better, I promise.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Susan yelled over Elaine's arm. “You say it again and again and again.”

“Last time you attacked a member of this camp, you were given a warning. Do you remember it?”

Bedivere paled. “Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.” Merlin was strongly aware of Arthur’s presence behind him. He’d wanted Arthur to see the good of the Druids, not the mundane evil that even Druids could not escape. Merlin had never really meant to follow through on any execution, but anger flooded him. How dare Bedivere hurt his wife? How dare he hurt anyone? That darkness, the death-darkness, crept over Merlin’s heart.

“We warned you,” Merlin repeated, raising his hand. He was about to utter the killing spell when Susan wrenched herself from Elaine’s arms and threw herself over her husband.

“Don’t kill him,” she said feverishly. “Send him away, never let him come back, but please, please, don’t kill him.”

Merlin faltered. He was skilled enough that he could kill Bedivere without harming Susan. But Bedivere had been hurting people in this camp for a long, long time. There were few who did not fear him.

“Emrys,” said Arthur. That was all, but Merlin lowered his hand.

“You have one hour to gather your things and go,” he said. He nodded at Mordred, and the force restraining Bedivere dissipated. He stood shakily, his eyes on Emrys, and it seemed he was about to go, when he roared and thrust his hands outward. A magical shockwave nearly knocked Merlin back, and he was quick to call on his own magic, swinging his hand up and down. There was a terrible cracking noise, and Bedivere fell to the earth, dead.

It was then that Merlin realized Bedivere’s wave had knocked back his hood.

***

Arthur’s

heart

stopped.

Emrys—Merlin—whatever name he was hiding behind—sucked in his lips. The silence that stretched between them was terrible.

Merlin, so pale, the lower half of his leg halfway across the room, still wearing its boot. The blood spilling like wine on a feast night. His head resting in the crook of Arthur’s arm, his eyelids fluttering.

Excalibur. The dragon’s breath. Gone to a sorcerer behind Arthur’s back—he _was_ the sorcerer behind Arthur’s back.

“Arthur,” Merlin croaked, and that was too much. Too much.

“My horse,” Arthur said, through lips that barely moved. “I require my horse.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said again, and Arthur flinched. Merlin closed his eyes.

“Assist him, Mordred.”

“But—”

“Mordred,” Merlin said sharply. “Now.” Mordred looked pained, but he stepped up to Arthur.

“Your Majesty—”

“No,” Arthur said coldly. “It will not be necessary for you to speak. My horse, please.”

He galloped away from the camp as if there were a questing beast on his trail, bending his head to his horse’s mane and trying to outrun his thoughts.

Merlin. Merlin, alive. Merlin, magic. All this time. All this time? All this time Arthur grieved, Merlin was so close? A horse-ride away? Arthur screamed, his horse’s neck muffling the sound. Tears burned their way from his eyes. “All this time,” he realized he was saying. “All this time. All this time.”

He was going in the opposite direction of Camelot. He didn’t think he could face home like that. _Guinevere, Lancelot, you know how our best friend Merlin died brutally at the hands of my sister? It turns out that he is alive and well and, actually, he’s now the magical king of the Druids._ No. That would never do.

When he was able to think, Arthur sorted through his memories of Emrys, trying to align them with the Merlin he’d known. The teasing. The random bits of wisdom. The joy found in lounging by a river. But the magic, the magic, the life. The life! Arthur had seen Merlin burn with his very own eyes. But death, usually the greatest equalizer, spat Merlin out like a bone. Why hadn’t he come back to Camelot? To Arthur?

The dream. Merlin laughing by the fire. And Arthur had grieved, had grieved because that would never happen again. And the whole time, that bastard, that magic-using bastard, had been laughing at him! Even before he died—didn’t die—sort of died—even before then, Merlin must have been laughing at Arthur. A king, treated like a servant! No wonder he took nothing seriously! Was Hunith even his mother? Had he really come from Ealdor?

Had Arthur been grieving for a real man at all?

It had been early when Arthur set out, but he didn’t stop until exhaustion forced him to the ground well after nightfall. The sleep that had come so easily in the Druid camp evaded him. When he closed his eyes, he saw the moment that unnatural wind passed over Emrys, throwing back his hood.

Arthur hadn’t understood at first. It was so impossible to him that Merlin could be alive that he had simply thought, _That man looks familiar._ But then Merlin had turned to him, his face grim. Arthur had been able to see it in full.

Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.

Arthur cried out and slammed his fist into a tree. He pummelled it until his knuckles bled and his hands ached. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.

At last, Arthur dropped to the ground in defeat. Minutes trickled into hours, and still he couldn’t sleep. What had he been thinking, going the opposite direction from Camelot? He was riding alone, which meant no one to keep watch. Not that he would be able to fall into a deep sleep. Had nothing been wrong, he would still be want to do more than doze while on the trail.

A branch crack sent Arthur flying to his feet, one hand reaching for the sword that wasn’t there. In his haste, he’d left Excalibur with the Druids. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted it. Damn that, though, it didn’t matter who’d given it to him. A sword was a sword.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself.”

Merlin stepped into the circle of firelight. In a flash, Arthur had Merlin up against a tree, the sharp end of a stick pointing into his belly. “I should kill you where you stand.”

“Then do it,” Merlin said. Arthur grit his teeth and squeezed the stick. Then, with a sharp exhalation, he dropped the stick and stepped back, taking Merlin in. He wasn’t wearing his cloak or hood, just a shirt and trousers. If not for the complete fatigue set deep into Merlin’s face, he could have stepped straight from the past. There was a gravity about him Arthur had never seen before.

“I should have known,” Arthur said tiredly. “You never could leave well enough alone.”

“Arthur, that’s not—” Merlin broke off. “I never wanted to lie to you. I’m sorry.”

Arthur barked a laugh. “You never wanted to lie to me? You just let me think you were dead for five years?”

Merlin’s mouth twisted. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” Arthur heard his own voice as if from a long distance. It sounded emotionless, removed.

“I came back different. I didn’t want you to see me the way I am now.”

“And what’s that? A liar? A traitor?”

“You have no idea the things I’ve done for you, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin said fiercely, and Arthur could hear Emrys in his voice. “You’re right, I was a liar. I served you for five years, saving your life and then turning around and cleaning your boots. Mucking out your stables. Everything I did, I did for you. And, yes, I had to lie along the way. If that makes a traitor, so be it.”

“Did I mean that little to you,” Arthur asked flatly. “You couldn’t trust me with the truth of who you were.”

“Gods, Arthur, are you listening to me?” Merlin said. “It was all for you. Because I believed you would be a great king one day. If you knew what I could do, it would have been over.”

“You think I would have handed you over to my father?”

“I didn’t know what to think! You were raised by the man who killed my people!”

Arthur shook his head. “Was it all a lie? Our…our friendship.” He spat out the last word.

“Of course not,” Merlin said, his voice trembling with emotion. “Arthur, I—there was no one I cared for more than you. You were my best friend.”

“And yet you couldn’t be bothered to let me know you were alive.”

“I told you. I came back different.”

“You keep saying that,” Arthur flashed. “Came from where, exactly?”

Merlin spread his hands. “I don’t know. Spirits are supposed to travel through Avalon, but I don’t remember anything from the time I died to the when I woke up on the forest floor. But whatever magic brought me back…it’s like a shard of ice in my heart. I am cold, constantly. I couldn’t bring whatever this is back to you.”

“And so you returned to the Druids.”

Merlin looked surprised. “You know I wasn’t born of the Druids. Before Camelot, I lived in Ealdor. But after I died, the Druids found me. They nursed me back to health.”

“And they made you their king.”

“Yes,” Merlin said resignedly. “They made me their king.”

Arthur couldn’t help the sob that burst from him. He braced himself against a tree, bowing his head so Merlin couldn’t see his face. So many emotions were roiling through his body. The great grief, the awesome anger. Despite it all, joy, for here was Merlin, _Merlin._ Merlin, the man who stopped to smell flowers on hunts. Merlin, the man whose smile lit up Arthur’s heart.

Merlin, who was so much more powerful than Arthur had ever known. Merlin, who had given up so much to keep Arthur safe. Merlin, who hadn’t wanted to burden Arthur with his strange curse.

The emotions warring within Arthur reached a sudden equilibrium. He was encased in utter calm. Hesitantly, he turned to face Merlin, who was standing, Arthur realized, unevenly.

“Where’s your cane?”

“I forgot it when I teleported here.”

“Teleported?”

“Yes.”

“Merlin—”

“Arthur—”

Merlin’s lips were soft, and sweet, and terribly cold. Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin’s thin body and licked his way into his mouth. It was like kissing sugar-dusted ice. Merlin melted in Arthur’s embrace, and at first Arthur thought it was his imagination, but no. Merlin’s mouth was warming up. His hold body heated beneath Arthur’s hands, and Merlin groaned in relief. In was the sweetest sound Arthur had ever heard.

“I’m thawing,” Merlin whispered against Arthur’s lips. “I’m thawing.” And then he smiled that smile, that beautiful, brilliant smile.

“Never leave me again,” Arthur said between kisses. “Never.”

“Never,” Merlin agreed, slightly breathless. “Your stables must be disgusting by now.”

“Dreadful,” Arthur agreed, pressing his forehead to Merlin’s. “Simply dreadful.”

“You’ll need someone to clean them.”

“I’ll need someone to write the sorcers’ code, too. Do you happen to know any sorcerers?”

“Mm, not really.”

“Merlin.”

“All right, all right. Let’s go home.”

And thus ends the book of the lonely man and the Emrys king.


End file.
